by Keilan Shea
I exit the browser and close my laptop, squeezing it as though the inconsequential pressure will seal it shut forever. But ignorance won’t protect me from the harsh, rotten truths of reality.
CHAPTER 10
Darkness bathes the campus in desaturated silvery hues and eerily illuminates Green Languages, a building with that uniform sandstone foundation and those gold highlights I’ve come to expect but varied with its unique wood siding. All language classes available in the Crown are found here, including Introduction to Creative Writing, which, yes, I chose for my one elective.
As the academy’s first scholarship student, part of the deal for funding my entire year here involves my classes. The superintendent and Crown Principal reviewed my transcript and carved a path deemed effectively challenging. Gilded Academy is known for its exigent curriculum, but I’m not worried.
It’s too bad one of the classes on my path is PE. It was inevitable since it’s required and I’ve been avoiding it. But it’s sports-focused. Couldn’t they have offered aerobics or some alternative that I’d be able to fake? I’m going to get trampled.
I’m not complaining—really. I’m glad they allowed me to choose one of my seven classes for the first semester, so that’s what I focus on as I enter the building: gratitude. It’s time to face my fear of and passion for fantasy books. As I’m quite an assiduous student, I can whip up a mean research paper, but ask me to use my imagination for something fanciful and I flounder like a fish out of water. Not anymore. Today, that changes.
It’s quiet inside Green Languages, which isn’t abnormal, but it makes me shiver. There isn’t a student in sight, leaving me to study the building itself. Words from various languages are etched into rosewood and painted green. The air is fresh. My nose is a little stuffy, but this minty scent clears that up fast. If I wasn’t alert before, I am now. It’s like a wake-up potion. The prospect makes me entirely too giddy.
My class is on the second floor, and my phone is leading me right to it because floor levels are no obstacle. My digital schedule and map work in tandem, indicating my destination at any given time of day. It’s so convenient—even though it requires I divide my attention. Without this app, I’d be stuck in a loop somewhere with my poor sense of direction guiding me. The amount of time it’d take to find someone to help me would guarantee tardiness. I’ve never been anywhere so big and empty. But, aside from so much walking, I don’t mind it. I like having a disproportionate student body and campus. Unless we’re all being gathered together somewhere, as with Richter Palace last night or the cafeteria this morning, it means no brushing shoulders and hips with anyone.
Yep. Everything is great.
Or so I keep telling myself.
Falling asleep last night was an ordeal. Lucas and everything I read about him permeates my thoughts even now. I didn’t allow myself to spiral down an endless tunnel full of Lucas Ignacio trivia after I closed my laptop. I grabbed The Sister Star and read. Tried to. I was stuck on the same paragraph for fifteen minutes because it was overlaid with the afterimages of the articles and my morbid curiosity to know more.
I don’t need to know more. It’s obvious enough I should stay away from him as Naomi said, but I haven’t deleted Lucas’s number yet.
Should I block his number? What should I say to him next time I see him? How long can I avoid him?
“Watch out!”
I stop an inch before my nose can smack into the sharp-edged wood of a heavy door. My savior pushes it against the wall, keeping it there with a doorstop that she kicks underneath. She’s tiny, pixie-like with her short haircut and royal-purple corduroys. Her attire is casual and not student appropriate. Meaning she’s a member of the faculty?
“Are you here for Introduction to Creative Writing?” she asks.
“Y-yes.”
“Then you’re in the right place.” She bows and sweeps her thin arm toward the door.
I take a tentative step forward, then another, until I’m inside the semicircular classroom. The front of the room, where the interactive display is mounted, is faintly rounded whereas the back, lined with long tables and chairs, is the straight wall between two harsh corners of a metal box. The dichotomy would be jarring, but the bookshelves and the diversity of artwork, from bold comic-book covers to pastel literary-fiction covers, hanging on the walls make up for it because it’s all fiction. I unnecessarily adjust my glasses.
I might love this teacher.
“I’m Mx. Kennedy,” the pixie says, pointing to the words written on the whiteboard app. “They, them, and their are my pronouns. And you are?”
“Melody Lopez,” I say. “She, her, and hers.”
“Nice to meet you, Melody.” Mx. Kennedy places their hands on their slender hips. “You’re our scholarship student then. I’m honored to have you in my class and approve of your early-bird attitude. Since you’re the first one here, would you like to pick today’s warm-up writing prompt?”
“Gladly.”
Mx. Kennedy summons an app that acts as a stack of digital index cards onto the interactive display, banishing the whiteboard. “Feel free to flip through them. I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”
Left to my own devices, I touch the screen, flipping through the cards and enjoying the 3D replication of shuffling paper. It’s not the same as holding them in my hands, but it’s fun.
A flat note rings throughout the classroom and outside of it. A baritone voice follows. “Good morning, Gildeds. This is Caesar Biggs, your Vice Crown President. I regret to inform you all that Blake Earnshaw has unexpectedly transferred to another school to ‘expand his horizons.’ It was a decision he didn’t make lightly, as he made a promise to all of you, but he knows I will devotedly fulfill the duties of Crown President in his place. I wish Blake the best on his new adventure and humbly accept. I am honored to serve you all in this new capacity and also wish you the best on your first day of the school year. Thank you.”
So, it’s official. Blake isn’t coming. This should be good for me since it should extinguish the political wildfire, but I wonder how Theo feels about this announcement. It’s not what he and Ricky discussed. It sounds like Ricky is the only person Blake confided the truth in …
Uh, right. I’m supposed to pick a prompt. Reading them gets overwhelming fast. Is there a right or wrong choice here? I settle for one at random and step away.
Mx. Kennedy looks up from their desk. “That’s a good one.”
Is it? I didn’t read it, but I do now. You’re a worker bee going about your daily business when the queen requests an audience with you …
“Sit wherever you like,” Mx. Kennedy says. “There are no assigned seats in my class. There has to be some spontaneity within this formal structure. You’ll have plenty of other teachers who will side-eye your tie.”
My fingers fly to the silky golden fabric. Is it crooked or something? I watched a video on my laptop before leaving my room this morning, hoping that would be enough. Then I learned there are different ways to tie a necktie. I must have picked the wrong knot; punctuality was more important than deliberating over it.
“Dress code calls for a half-Windsor knot,” Mx. Kennedy informs.
“I … don’t know that one.”
“Hop over here and I’ll show you.”
I fumble with my tie, undoing the knot, and hold it out to the teacher. Mx. Kennedy takes it and ties it around their neck while stopping to instruct me at every step. They’re so thorough I have no problem replicating it.
“And there you are.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
I take a seat in the front row. It’s as much a habit as it is me being unabashedly a teacher’s pet. There are ten minutes until class starts and no sign of other students. I’m early, but I wonder how many people are taking this class. Gilded Academy offers so many options it’s impossible all teachers are being optimally utilized. There aren’t enough students to go around. Does that mean unpopular
classes are cut?
“When class starts, I’ll lead everyone into the warm-up and time you all for five minutes,” Mx. Kennedy says. “Then I’ll have each of you read what you wrote. What better way is there to introduce yourselves in a creative writing class than through your writing?”
I like the sound of that. It’s much better than those impromptu introduction games. Preparation time is a necessary evil in my life if I’m to properly present myself.
I retrieve my laptop, instead of my academy-issued tablet, from my backpack and set it on the table. Mx. Kennedy sets a stack of leather journals and a hedgehog-shaped pen holder beside it. “Claim one of each, Melody. Plenty of your assignments will require typing, but pen on paper is cathartic. It’s my hope that every student will keep these journals as a memento long after this class is over. Someday, you may read through it again. Or maybe one of your loved ones will.”
I take the journal on top of the stack. Each one is unique, but I shouldn’t rummage through them all just to find my favorite. The hedgehog’s “quills” make choosing a pen less straightforward. I select a pen I suspect contains navy-blue ink.
With nothing left to occupy my mind, Lucas drifts across the back of my eyelids the next time I blink. I press my fingers into my temples, but the pressure does little to soothe me as questions run through my head and block out new voices.
What was Lucas’s relationship with Drake Griffin?
Were they friends?
Enemies?
Was bullying involved?
Did Lucas have something to do with Drake’s suicide?
Why would I even consider something so awful?
I don’t know. I don’t know who Lucas Ignacio is, but everyone else seems to think they do. His public record isn’t outstanding, but the facts don’t condemn him. Speculation is what paints him as a monster.
The chair next to me releases the tiniest squeak as someone pulls it out to sit at my table. There are so many available seats. Why would anyone choose to sit beside me?
I glance to my right and spot baby-blue eyes. Theo Earnshaw.
“Good morning, Melody.”
“H-hi.”
“I’m sorry about yesterday. It wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for me.” He fumbles with the zipper on his briefcase, extracting something I can’t see, which he then curls his fingers around.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Theo notes the sprinkling of other students and lowers his voice. “Olive is angry with me.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“She would’ve left you alone after what I said at Phoenix Fountain, but seeing you with me last night infuriated her.” Theo opens his leather journal without releasing his fist, fingering the bottom corner of the first page.
“I don’t get it,” I say, “but you don’t have to worry about it anymore. We aren’t friends.”
“Okay. If that’s what you want.”
An awkward silence falls over us and neither of us is willing to make eye contact. Naomi said to befriend this boy, but I don’t like conflict. His friends don’t like me. That’s the end of it.
He was crying alone in the library, though, and I know what that feels like.
No. I said the right thing.
Why is time moving so slowly? Class needs to start five minutes ago.
Theo uncurls his fingers. In his palm sits a round blue-rimmed gold badge with the letters BE etched into it. It’s identical to the one he was, and probably still is, wearing underneath his collar. He places it in front of me, the proof that he supports former Crown President Earnshaw.
“You still have that?” I ask.
“Caesar is being hasty.”
“You’re saying he lied?”
Theo purses his lips. “No. He’s taken Blake’s place as per the rules.”
“Then it’s over.”
“It can’t be. It can’t end this way. Melody, what I said about Caesar and Blake … I don’t want to frighten you, but I think Caesar has been doing things he shouldn’t. If you wear this, you’re an ally to everyone who supports Blake and they’re the same to you. You’ll be safe. Especially when Blake comes back. Next week. He’ll be back by next week. You’ll see. Think about it at least, will you?” He catches a strand of his light brown hair, the wavy texture revolting, and tucks it back into place.
He sounds earnest, but I recall Ritsuki’s words in Lancaster Library. According to Ritsuki, Blake didn’t transfer to another school because he wanted to. Blake supporters have inexplicably switched sides. A buddy system. Blackmail. I wish I hadn’t heard any of that. Or the accusation Ritsuki made on our tour. This convoluted political web makes my skin crawl. Is it impossible to remain neutral even though this fiasco should be over? I don’t want to consider it, but I’ve been ignoring it and the prodding hasn’t stopped.
Say no to peer pressure as many times as it takes. Lucas isn’t worried about—
The resounding toll of a bell-played jingle signals class is now in session. My response to Theo’s invitation is to slide the badge in his direction as the five other students take their seats somewhere. Mx. Kennedy introduces the warm-up and I open my journal to the first crisp page. The blankness is blinding as my pen hovers over it. I can’t make a mark. This is my chance to dredge up whatever creativity I might have, but I don’t detect the slightest flicker.
You’re a worker bee … I’m supposed to put myself in that position. Would a queen summon a worker? She’s too busy reproducing with the drones. A worker bee going about her daily business might be “called” to feed the queen? If bees could talk, sure, but bees can’t talk.
I’m analyzing too much. I’ve read and seen plenty of stories and movies with anthropomorphic animals. All I have to do is pretend these bees are humans. Imagine.
“That’s time,” Mx. Kennedy says. “Melody, why don’t you start us off? Please read what you wrote.”
This may turn out to be a fatal mistake. This should be my easiest class, and yet I’ve failed my first assignment.
CHAPTER 11
Other than freezing like a deer caught in the bright beams of oncoming headlights in my creative writing class, Wednesday has gone smoothly. But now I must face my dreaded PE class in the Infinity Fitness Center. This building isn’t as big as the stadium in the Embers, but it does have an intriguing design; it’s shaped like a lemniscate. Two outdoor stadiums are contained within its inner circles while everything else lies indoors, inside the lines of that definite figure eight.
I’m to meet my PE teacher inside the Circle Gymnasium, which is a giant hemisphere illuminated by expansive skylights. I’m not the first to arrive. This class is larger than my others have been and the people I recognize are an odd batch. Theo—again—Caesar, Jet, Ritsuki, and Chloe Sullivan.
Chloe is the lead actress in the horror-drama TV show called Hideaway. And she’s Blake Earnshaw’s girlfriend.
I shouldn’t be shocked, but in my mind she’s more fiction than reality. I’ve never seen her outside of Hideaway. Not that I watch it. It’s Russel’s thing, too scary for me. On the show, she’s often covered in grime, but that doesn’t detract from her beauty and hasn’t cost her any fanboys. She’s stunning with her flawless olive skin, thick eyelashes, silky black hair, classic oval face, slender-but-perfect figure—
That familiar jingle echoes throughout the gymnasium, the bell schedule signaling the start of class. Once it’s finished, a burly, hairy man wearing a too-tight workout shirt and matching shorts claps like a peal of thunder to draw attention to himself. My jaw almost drops. “Line up!” The volume and quality of his gravelly voice send a chill down my spine and a cold sweat breaks out across my clammy skin as I scramble to obey.
My Mary Janes squeak on the hardwood floor’s glossy finish as I seek out the end of the line. My left remains empty as Theo assumes the space at my right—the spot Caesar would have claimed if Theo hadn’t stepped in. I sidestep to lengthen the gap between us, which t
he hairy man doesn’t approve of. “At least pretend you like each other.” He eyes me when he says it, so I sidestep closer to Theo and try to ignore the heat of embarrassment pounding in my skull as I stare at the ground.
This class is going to kill me.
“I’m Coach Dahl,” The hairy man says. “Unfortunately, to run we have to walk, so listen up.” He scorches me with his contemptible gaze for this next bit, presumably because everybody else already knows the information he’s about to bestow on us. “Each of you has been assigned a locker. If you don’t know the number, check your phone. I know you all have one on you, so don’t try to deny it. Your student ID is your key. Tap the sensor—you can’t miss it—and your locker will open. Everything you need is inside and you’re to leave it all where you found it when I’ve dismissed you. Next time you come to class, I expect you to be dressed in your PE uniform before the bell rings. Got it?”
The gymnasium erupts in a synchronized “Got it!” Except my voice is a few seconds behind everyone else’s. Worse than that, it’s like the single flat note in an otherwise pitch-perfect chorus.
“Speak up, Lopez.”
“S-sir.”
Coach Dahl huffs and turns to Theo. “The same goes for you.”
“Yes, sir.” Theo’s reply is strong and clear. Practiced. His exemplary posture, and all-around presence, is no different. I need to learn that trick, because it is a trick. I know this confident air isn’t natural to him.
Coach Dahl’s steely expression changes to a snarl—a grin?—when he locks onto Caesar and firmly clasps his outstretched hand. “What are you doing here? I’m surprised Crown Principal Ulrich allowed you to throw away a period.”
“You know football is an extracurricular and can’t provide that last PE credit I need,” Caesar replies easily.
“Utter stupidity when recruiters have been clawing out each other’s eyes to get your attention since your freshman year, not that I mind having you in this class.” Coach Dahl places his hands on his narrow hips and walks the line before returning to single out Theo. “No Blake.” It’s not a question, but his probing eyes are enough to make me squirm—and I’m not the one he’s pressuring. Theo, however, remains firm and silent. Coach Dahl sniffles and rudely wipes his nose with his thumb.
